


Be It Ever

by LeBibish



Category: Practical Magic (1998)
Genre: Family, Gen, meaning of home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21846118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeBibish/pseuds/LeBibish
Summary: For 300 years, the Owens family home has stood on the edge of an island, facing the sea. A family of witches leaves a mark on a house, after three centuries.
Relationships: Owens family
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	1. The Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [penintime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penintime/gifts).



Over three hundred years of love and magic were soaked into the wood and earth and soul of the Owens’ family home when Sally and Gillian Owens brought a man back to life with a desperate, dangerous spell.

***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***

Bridget stood at the stove top, watching intently as the spoon slowly mixed the melting chocolate and warming milk together. A thick towel stretched between her hands, held up and ready to snatch the pot off the stove at exactly the right moment.

Behind her, Bridget could hear her mother humming cheerfully at the kitchen counter as she beat together the butter, sugar and egg yolks. The rattle of the whisk played a rhythmic counterpoint to the wandering melody. The kitchen was warm and bright from the early morning sun reaching straight in through the open windows.

The rich scent of chocolate filled the cool spring air as the spoon continued to glide through the now smooth mixture on the stove. Bridget darted forward, her cloth covered hands grabbing eagerly for the handle to lift the pot onto the countertop. The spoon clanged heavily against the side and started slipping into the mix. Bridget stretched onto her tiptoes to pull it out, a swirl of hot chocolate dripping off it.

The humming drifted away as Mother put her bowl down and moved closer to Bridget. “Well done, my love. Now, do you remember how to cool it?”

Bridget glanced up at her mother’s gentle smile and turned back to the pot of chocolate. She pinched her eyes shut, biting her lip and trying to think about when she had seen her mother cool something down before.

A large warm hand came to rest in the center of Bridget’s back; her eyes popped open as she sucked in a surprised gasp.

“That’s right!” Mother bent down to rest her head against Bridget’s, their cheeks brushing gently. “There’s a fire inside your heart, love, that you can use to good purpose. Let it out with a breath for warmth— “and here she paused and turned to an unlit candle. Her lips pursed, she blew a gentle stream of air over the wick, igniting the candle with a single joyful flame—"or, draw your breath back to pull the warmth back in.” And with that she leaned towards the chocolate and pulled in a long, slow stream of air. The chocolate visibly thickened, its glossy surface shining in the sunlight.

Bridget focused on her spoon, still covered in hot, melting chocolate. She drew in a sharp breath, relishing the feel of cold air rushing over her lips and teeth. With a sudden yelp, she dropped the now frozen spoon on the counter, the brittle chocolate shell shattering.

Mother’s laugh echoed against the tiles behind the stove. “Well, a bit more practice on that one, love of mine. Hmmm, now, can you mix up those egg whites over there while I get all this together?”

She confidently lifted the pot of chocolate and took it back over to the wooden worktable in the center of the room. Bridget glared at the icy spoon and scattered chocolate bits, then dismissed them, turning to her new task. A vigorous beating later, she carried over the small bowl to where her mother was adding the last bit of flour to the wet ingredients. With the addition of the eggs, Bridget eased herself onto a stool to watch her mother’s strong arms whip the cake mixture around the large bowl, stretching and compressing to the beat of her song.

After, she held the cake pans steady while Mother poured the batter into three batches and then carefully loaded them all into the oven. As Mother straightened up, she swiped her hand against her forehead, moving her hair away from her eyes and leaving a streak of white flour smeared behind. She grinned at Bridget, teeth flashing, and cheeks creased with happiness. “Now then, while that bakes we’ll just get together some icing, hmm? And then we’ll have a bit of sweetness to start our day—and guard our hearts against any bitterness that comes our way.”

Bridget’s own smile was gap-toothed and beaming. “Chocolate cake for breakfast,” she shouted as she grabbed Mother’s hand to pull her towards the pantry. She was sure they had some nuts hiding on one of the shelves.

***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***

A dead man lay on the kitchen table, his body stiff and stinking of alcohol. Sally and Gillian stomped and banged through the potion room and conservatory, frantically collecting ingredients and throwing them on the kitchen floor. The dark wood groaned in protest beneath their pounding feet.

Half a spell later, a resurrected abomination stood on that floor, strangling Gillian Owens as he shouted in possessive and uncomprehending rage. An iron pot leaped into Sally’s hands as she swung with all her strength—the second death of Jimmy Angelov.

***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***

Frances could see her sister and aunts weeding diligently between the herb beds from where she leaned on a column of the pergola that stood between the garden and the rocky seashore. She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, glaring at the other women.

There was absolutely no reason for them all to be out in the garden right now—she watched as two of the aunts reached for the same weed, shoulders and elbows fighting a pitched battle until the youngest of the three aunts snatched it up from the other side of the raised bed.

“There’s a sour look! And on such a pretty face!”

Frances’ glare swung over to the mad standing at her side. He winced, stepping back and bringing his hand up to cover his heart. “Ouch! A direct hit!” Pink and yellow roses bloomed behind him, climbing one side of the structure to create a shady roof over them.

She felt her lips twitch upwards and determined, focused back on the interfering busybodies out in the garden. Any traitorous smile was instantly wiped away as she saw the aunts and her sister had all managed to move up against the nearest side of the fence while still focusing diligently on the herb beds in front of them. Which were, at this point, completely weed free. Her fingers itched to throw a hex at the lot of them.

“Franny…pretty Franny” a deep voice crooned near her ear. “Sweet, pretty Franny. Here I am, all spruced up and being ignored by my own fiancée.” He heaved a mournful sigh even as he cheekily set his hand onto her waist and gently tugged. She let him spin her towards him but fought to keep her face set in a disapproving stare.

Ethan’s strong brown eyes met hers, full of a bright merriment. His mouth quirked to one side, a laugh hiding behind his closed lips. His hand was still resting warmly on her hip. “Franny, pretty, pretty Franny. How can you worry about those old meddlers when you have such a dashing young man hanging on your every word?”

“Let Aunt Sofia catch you calling her old and I guarantee you won’t leave looking as shiny as you came in!”

His eyes flicked over to the garden fence and he lowered his voice hesitantly “Surely they can’t hear me from over there…can they?”

“Aunt Sofia can hear someone calling her old from the mainland,” she smirked at him.

He shuffled over slightly, putting her between him and the very busy garden behind her. “Ah…”

She laughed and shook her head. “Keep your voice down a bit and they won’t be able to catch any words. The roses will help muffle the sound.” Reaching up, she ran one finger gently along the edge of a silky petal. “They’re fond of lovers, roses are.”

He blinked at her and she felt herself start to stiffen—after all this time, she was still wary of sharing too much…

But any surprise in his face was wiped away by another cheeky grin. “I’m rather fond of lovers myself, pretty Franny.”

She caressed the flower gently, gently plucking a few petals. Holding them in the palm of her hand, she turned towards them ocean and gently tossed the petals into the air. A cool summer breeze lifted the petals up, dancing out over the waves, their sweet scent mingling with the rich saltiness weighting the air down. She murmured a soft chant—for luck, for joy, for the protection of lovers before turning back to Ethan, her head tilted to look up at him through her lashes.

He leaned in closer to her, his voice hushed and sweet. “If I’m risking being chased off by one of your aunts, can’t I get a kiss before I go?”

Frances rolled her eyes at him but found herself closing the distance between them anyways.

He really did look very smart in that uniform.

***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***

Near the bare bones of the pergola, Sally and Gillian Owens pounded their feet into the earth, squishing mud and bits of grass between their bare toes, burying Jimmy Angelov in the rich ground. There hadn’t been roses there for decades, but the soil was still easy to dig into and the structure still stood strong and steady.

That night, the small creatures that tended and tilled the earth of the Owens garden veered away from the path, avoiding the foul and disturbing invader to their simple world. Under the pergola, rose bushes grew over night, their vicious thorns and blood red blossoms a warning to anyone who would come near.

***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***

Two small beds stood side by side in the large attic, neatly made up and ready to welcome their usual occupants into a cozy sleep. The moon peeked in through the large window, illuminating an abandoned Game of Life with scattered pieces and two cars waiting halfway around the board.

Sally’s car had a little blue person and little pink person in the front and two little pink children in the back. She had been a doctor that game—she always chose the college route.

Gillian’s car had one little pink person driving—she had passed the marriage check point but two spins later she had pulled the little blue man out. She said she wanted a divorce and she was going to keep the car and house.

Normally Sally would have protested about how Gillian would take care of her kids if she landed on any of those squares and Gillian would have said that they could live with their Aunt Sally, couldn’t they, pleeeeease? And they would have kept playing like that with Gillian making up wilder and wilder stories to go with any event she landed on until either Sally won with the perfect Life® or Gillian got bored and pulled another game off the shelf. Normally the board games only came out when it was too cold or wet or otherwise dreary to play outside and the aunts weren’t available for lessons.

That morning, when Gillian had tossed her little blue man aside, Sally had stared at her and then stood up and walked away.

Sally had been doing that all week. She had walked away silently when Aunt Jet asked her what kind of cake she wanted for their birthday—Gillian told Aunt Jet to make strawberry. Aunt Jet, who knew how much Gillian loved her Devil’s Food cake, had smiled at her and gripped her cheek gently, rubbing a bit of flour off on the bridge of Gillian’s nose.

When Aunt Frances had pulled out the photo frames and told the girls to help set up the altar, Sally had walked away without saying anything then either. Gillian told Aunt Frances she would do it all herself—even though it took her an entire afternoon and Sally hadn’t helped at all.

Sally hadn’t walked away from the feast—she ate quickly and silently, staring down at her food and ignoring the empty chairs placed around the table with full plates sitting in front of them. She’d left the table as soon as she finished the last bite of the cake Aunt Jet had brought out. Aunt Frances and Aunt Jet had both frowned, so Gillian had leapt out of her seat and ran to grab an armful of the candles that were resting near the door.

“We’ll get the upstairs, promise!” And then she had dashed up the stairs, leaving the aunts still sitting at the table.

Gillian had managed to get the upstairs done herself and the Aunts hadn’t come up to check on her at all. It was hard to tell what that meant, with them. But Gillian had walked carefully through the upstairs, placing a single candle in each window and lighting it with a careful murmur.

She had one last candle by the time she reached the attic bedroom. She hadn’t seen Sally once since she started. Ignoring the deep shadows filling the room and the abandoned game highlighted by the moonlight, Gillian stepped up to the window. She placed the candle carefully on the sill, making sure it was evenly balanced and secure. Learning down, she whispered, “Welcome home, Regina Owens” and blew a soft, slow breath over the wick until it ignited into a dancing flame. Leaning back, Gillian whispered again, “Welcome home, Mother.”

A thump echoed down from the stairs leading up to the lighthouse. Gillian heaved a sigh and went to sit at the foot of the staircase. She didn’t look up, just wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her head on her knee.

It took a few moments for a warm body to settle beside her.

“She’s not coming back. It doesn’t work like that. It never works in a way that matters.”

The first time Sally had walked away from Gillian that week was when she had pulled the mirror out from the back of the wardrobe. She had found the scrying spell two years ago—their first Samhain living with the Aunts. Sally had remembered, vaguely, Aunt Isabella saying Samhain was a good night for scrying. That a good scrying spell on Samhain night could draw in an ancestor’s spirit—Aunt Isabella said she had met Maria Owens herself one Samhain night.

Gillian didn’t remember Aunt Isabella, but she trusted Sally’s memory and her power. For the last two years they had set up the spell in their room after the feast and after lighting the candles in the windows for every family member who had called the Owens house their home.

For two years, the mirror had shown them images of the past—little girls for generations and generations playing in the attic bedroom. Last year they had watched a little girl that Sally thought was Aunt Isabella cut paper dolls out of a magazine and a young Aunt Jet dancing with a broom wearing a top hat while Aunt Frances slowly, carefully peeled an apple in a single, long strip.

But in spite of everything they had seen in the mirror, no spirit had come. Their mother’s spirit had never come.

And this year, when Gillian had pulled the old mirror out of hiding, with her bundle of herbs ready to be prepared and set, Sally had looked at her and turned away.

Sitting at the bottom of the stairs, Gillian let herself slump against her sister so they were each holding the other up.

By the time the aunts came up the stairs, the crying was done. Gillian wasn’t sure if that was on purpose or not, but she hated for anyone other than Sally to see her cry anyway.

“Well, my dears, I think it’s time for you to learn about another family tradition.” Aunt Jet beamed as she held out her hands to Sally and Gillian. Aunt Frances raised a brow at their red faces but nodded at them and made a shooing motion towards downstairs.

“What’s that?” Gillian asked.

“Midnight margaritas!” Aunt Frances crowed.

“Well, virgin ones for you girls, at least.”

***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***

Two girls with tear stained faces fled the attic, their feet thundering down the staircase. Behind them, the door slammed shut, separating them from their possessed Aunt Gillian. The stairs shuddered underneath them and the windows of the house rattled against their sills.

Sally sent her children downstairs to safety. Rushing up the stairs to find her sister writhing in her childhood bed—witnessing the evil spirit of Jimmy Angelov rising out of her sister’s body—Sally found herself clutching the wood of the slanting roof. The worn planks held her up, giving her strength to make her way over to grasp Gillian’s hand.

***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***

Sally shifted in the armchair, tucking her feet farther under her and resettling her math text and notebook in her lap. The crackling fire filled the parlor room with a warm glow, a strong contrast to the cold, dark January night out the window.

She tried to focus on homework and ignore Gillian, sitting across the hall on the dining room table and knocking her heels against the sturdy wooden leg. The Aunts were engaged in their common tasks, Jet spinning thread at the table while Frances sat at her loom.

In spite of herself, Sally couldn’t stop listening to their conversation.

“What do you do with all that cloth? You must’ve made all sorts since we’ve been here and I don’t think I’ve ever seen one on one of our beds,” Gillian asked.

“No, dear. We never keep your Aunt Franny’s work.”

“What do you do with them then?” Knock, knock, knock went Gillian’s heels against the table. Equations swam in front of Sally’s eyes, darting around the page as she tried to uncross them.

“Well, when she makes a cloak or other clothing, we take them to one of the celebrations. Last solstice we had several very lovely aprons ready. Alice—you remember Alice, dear, don’t you? Alice has a booth at her local farmer’s market and she sells them for us.”

Sally’s shoulders rounded as she pushed her face closer into the math book as if that would block out any other thoughts. No one mentioned why the aunts wouldn’t sell what they made at the local market.

Aunt Frances was being unusually quiet.

“Clothing goes to Alice. And buys cake.” Gillian was probably winking at Aunt Jet. “That looks like a blanket though. Is it? What do you do with blankets?”

“Oh, all of the blankets go to a special home in New York. They take in young women who need a safe place to…”

“Jet.”

The house was very quiet. Sally managed to solve two of the equations in her notebook.

“Why New York though. That’s pretty far away. Aren’t there places like that closer?”

“We spent some time in New York once you know. With your grandfather and grandmother—well, we were all much younger then.”

“I am much younger now,” Frances’ voice cut through the room.

“Really? That’s so cool. What was New York like? I imagine it was amazing,” Gillian’s feet stopped banging into the table. Sally heard her jump down from her perch.

“Oh, well, it was quite the summer. We’ll tell you about it someday,” Aunt Jet said vaguely. Everyone knew Gillian couldn’t wait to leave and while the aunts were as perfectly supportive of it as they were of all of Gillian and Sally’s whims, they had been careful in the last few months not to be too enthusiastic or talk about other places too much.

Sally was avoiding thinking about why.

But once the conversation had been started—the only way to move Gillian off the topic of New York would be to give her something else to sink her teeth into that she liked as much as the idea of traveling to exciting places—

Magic.

“The blankets go to the home with a few charms on them, you see. That’s why I’m so careful with the thread. You have to make sure your source is from happy, well-cared for plants and animals to make sure no one has bad dreams under one of these blankets. And Franny….”

“Charms along the edges. Here, Gillian, you can see them here. A bit of protection, a dash of luck.”

“It’s not much, but even a little bit helps. We do what we can.”

“How do you weave luck in?” Gillian’s voice was eager, high and rushed.

Sally closed her book and headed upstairs. She was pretty sure her English homework was still in her bag in her room. The fire should have heated everything up by now.

***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***

A full coven—not all witches, but all women who were ready and willing to help another woman with man problems—gathered in the parlor.

As the magic swelled, the walls shook, vibrating with power and fear and love.

Your blood. My blood. Our blood.

Candles flickered around the room, the light of more than 10 generations of Owens witches shining in the night.

That was Jimmy Angelov’s final death. Three times he died; three times put to rest by an Owens woman protecting her sister.

***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***OOO***

Over three hundred years of love and magic and Owens blood were soaked into the wood and earth and soul of the house on the edge of the ocean. No single spirit, no matter how evil, no matter how possessive, would shatter those bonds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Devil’s Food (published in Mrs. Rorer’s New Cook Book: A Manual of Housekeeping, 1902)  
> 1/c cup of milk  
> 4 ounces of chocolate  
> ½ cup of butter  
> 3 cups of pastry flour  
> 1 1/1 cups of sugar  
> 4 eggs  
> 2 teaspoonfuls of baking powder  
> \- Put in the double boiler four ounces of chocolate and a half pint of milk; cook until smooth and thick, and stand aside to cool.  
> \- Beat a half cup of butter to a cream; add gradually one and a half cups of sugar and the yolks of four eggs; beat until light and smooth.  
> \- Then add the cool chocolate mixture and three cups of pastry flour, with which you have sifted two teaspoonfuls of baking powder.  
> \- Beat thoroughly for at least five minutes; then stir in the well beaten whites of the eggs. Bake in three or four layers.  
> \- Put the layers together with soft icing, to which you have added a cup of chopped nuts.  
> \- The success of this cake depends upon the flour used.  
> http://www.kristinholt.com/archives/14007


	2. The Post-Credits Scene

7 Years Later…

Kylie stood in the kitchen, watching carefully as a large spoon stirred through the wassail bowl. The warm cider and heady spices filled the room with a pungent scent of _holiday cheer_. Kylie wasn’t actually a fan of wassail—the spices didn’t really blend well for her and the cider always ended up tasting musty.

But Aunt Frances had promised that if Kylie took charge of all of the preparation, she could lead the wassailing to bless the trees of the island. And _that_ counted as leading a group rite, or at least, it would as long as all of the aunts and Antonia and Mother went too. And Aunt Jet’s friend Linda has said that once Kylie had led three group rites successfully and with the Aunts’ approval, then she could spend three months with Linda learning the basics of working with crystals.

The Owens family had never done much with crystal work and Kylie was convinced this could be her chance to make a mark on the family legacy. Plus, if she spent the summer with Linda then her mom couldn’t make her spend the summer working in the shop again. Kylie made enough money selling charm work on Etsy and the whole point of Linda’s requirement was to prove she could be mature and responsible, so she didn’t need a summer job for that either.

Impatient with watching the spoon stir the wassail, Kylie ran her fingers quickly over the bottom of bowl to make sure it was still the right temperature. Reassured, she turned to dig the correct glasses out of the white cabinets. As she did, she went over the best route again in her head. First, a blessing for the Yule Log already resting unlit in the parlor’s hearth. Then a cup of wassail and a song for each of the trees that had donated a branch or leaves to the Owens altar for the season—the green ash the Yule Log had come from, the holly near the porch and the stand of red cedar on the southern edge of their property. And then the fruit trees after that—the Owens’ first, and then Mr. Jones’ orchard.

Mr. Jones’ wife had died six years ago and for the past two years he had been bringing Aunt Jet the first harvest of everything he grew. The whole family liked to tease her about him. Mom said it served Aunt Jet right to have someone meddling in her life for once. Aunt Jet said she didn’t have a love life and Mr. Jones was far too young for her anyways.

Kylie thought Mr. Jones looked about the same age as Aunt Jet…but Aunt Jet had looked the same for as long as Kylie could remember and Aunt Gillian said that Aunt Jet and Aunt Frances had looked exactly the same since she was a little girl, so who could tell? It wasn’t like the aunts would ever answer a straight question about their age. It was always “Older than you” or “Younger enough” or “Who wants some cake?”

Anyways—Mr. Jones’ orchard second and then those neighbors who had started asking for it after Mr. Jones started winning every county fair ribbon there was for fruits and nuts. Those neighbors wouldn’t get the blessing for free—not that they paid for it, of course not. But sometime over the next year, they’d be expected to do an Owens a favor. And Kylie would be responsible for keeping track of that.

Finally pulling the last of the glasses out, Kylie turned to the stove to finish the final preparations for the spiced cider.

\----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- 

Antonia was pulling cookies out of the oven while the aunts set up the tree in the parlor. At least, Aunt Jet and Aunt Gillian were setting up the tree. Aunt Jet was winding the ribbons through the branches, their protective charms making sure the candles Aunt Gillian was lighting wouldn’t set the tree ablaze. Aunt Frances was sipping mulled wine and critiquing the placement of every candle, charm and ornament on the tree. Antonia wondered if they needed a charm to keep Aunt Gillian from setting her ablaze.

Or, possibly the other way around—Antonia could hear Aunt Gillian trying to convince the other aunts to let her set up her room as an Airbnb again.

It was probably a good time for some sweets to interrupt the conversation.

The cookies were Antonia’s idea, but Lena’s recipe. Antonia hadn’t even seen Mississippi Mud Cookies before, but they were exactly an Owens Aunt’s favorite kind—decadent and sweet and completely over the top. Antonia was hoping they’d put everyone in a good enough mood that when Lena showed up and everyone wondered why she was there, Antonia could just say she’s the person the cookies came from and then everyone would drop it and stop asking questions.

She was hoping really, really hard.

Because otherwise they’d keep asking questions like when did you invite her and why did you invite her and why didn’t you tell anyone you’d invited her. And then Antonia would have to say: well, she was talking about how much she loves going caroling and she was so pretty that I told her about wassailing and she said singing to trees sounded completely awesome and did I mention how pretty she was? Or: I don’t really remember asking her to come because I was thinking about what it would feel like to kiss her and then she said she’d love to come and oh, look, now she’s here.

Or she’d have to not say those things. Which was a lot harder when one was being stared down by the aunts with their sixth senses for messing with people’s love lives. Maybe she could ask Mom to stick with Lena the whole time—Mom didn’t have any patience for that kind of meddling, and she was the only one of the whole family who could fake being normal.

But that would mean that Lena spend the evening with Mom right there and that really, really wasn’t what Antonia had planned for the night.

Antonia stared down at the rich, chocolate-y, nutty, marshmallow-y cookies on the tray in front of her and mentally crossed her fingers.


	3. The Prequel

Welcome home, the witch whispered to her daughter as a cold wind swirled around the house, pushing and tugging on wooden planks shaped and raised by magic. A fire burned in the stone hearth, warming the single room.

The child grew up in the shelter of that room, surrounded by the wildness of the lonely island. She lit candles with her breath and spoke her mind with every expectation of being listened to. She worked in their small garden every day, pulling weeds and learning which phases of the moon to plant under to bring her herbs and flowers to their full potency. She climbed down to the sea and sang the fish into her nets and listened to the conversations of dolphins playing in the waves. At night, the girl and her mother slept on a bed stuffed with a thousand feathers given freely, geese and gulls and little brown sparrows that came by the little house to find food and sleep safe from predators. Sometimes the girl dreamed of flying away with them. Sometimes she snuggled into coarsely woven blankets and wanted nothing more than to stay there forever, warm and safe and listening to her mother’s quiet breaths.

Change always comes. Sometimes it creeps up slowly, the years adding up to turn a child into a woman. Sometimes it comes in quickly, like a storm blowing a fisherman off course, bringing him to land on a nearly deserted island.

He was a good man—kind and gentle, unafraid of hard work or women who spoke their minds. Unafraid of women who spoke with birds and told him every morning where the best fishing would be and how the weather would shift over the day. He was the kind of man who had many friends, friends who were themselves good and strong and eager to build their own homes on this island.

If they weren’t quite willing enough to build near the little home or to live side by side with the strange women who had survived all alone for so long, they were willing to accept poultices and herbal remedies from the lovingly tended gardens. They said hello when they encountered the women on the newly built streets and nodded approvingly when the young woman came to the first church service held on the island. They carefully ignored that her mother never stepped foot in the building.

The fisherman gave the witch’s daughter his name and two daughters of her own. He built a second room and a second story on the little house, the first man to live there and the last for more than 10 generations. Loved by his neighbors, he recruited several men to help him build a small lighthouse attached to the home, a simple tower with big open windows at the top and a light to always guide him home.

Welcome home, the witch’s daughter sighed, smiling at her love.

Change always comes. The night of the storm came that the fisherman didn’t return from, every window in the lighthouse shattered at once.

The witch’s daughter abandoned her husband’s name, raising her daughters to their mother’s name and their grandmother’s legacy. Those villagers who tried to address her as anything other than Mistress Owens found themselves distressingly unable to speak. The Owens girls grew up wild and strange, speaking to birds, singing to fish and lighting candles with a single, careful breath.

The villagers started to mutter about curses. They still came to the little house for medicines and the occasional other potion, but they stopped looking the women in the eyes. They stopped greeting them in the streets, stopped their children from playing with the girls. No Owens ever set foot in the island’s church again.

Change always comes, even to houses that are kept in a single family for generations. New rooms were added, whether by magic or money carefully spent on builders from off the island. Daughters left the home to be wives and returned as mothers—but always Owens women. Aunts and sisters sat on the porch in the summer, around the kitchen table in the winter, laughing and chatting, sewing and weaving and always making. Creating warmth and softness and the shelter of a home. Plants grew healthy and luxurious in the carefully tended garden and the most recent addition, the conservatory. Little girls played in the lighthouse tower, giggled at night in the attic bedroom, ran wild through the yard and climbed down to the sea to listen to dolphins and sing to fish.

Welcome home, generations of mothers told their daughters, welcome home, Owens child.


End file.
